Flirting With Fate (17 page)

She cocked her head, looking flummoxed. “Who’s
Mallory?”

He pulled a hand over his face. “Are we really
going to play this game?” His intercom beeped and he sighed and hit the button.
“Yeah?”

“Sergeant, Josie Bovard’s here to see you?” his
receptionist said.

He narrowed his eyes at the Josie on his desk and
she scrambled to her feet.

“Who are you?” he whispered.

“Can I send her in?” his receptionist asked.

“By all means,” he said, casting a meaningful look
at the blonde across from him.

She darted for the door, and he grabbed her arm,
yanking her back in the room.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said, pulling out his
cuffs. “You’re staying right here.” He cuffed her to the drawer of his desk.
She yanked at the cuff but didn’t even get the satisfaction of the drawer
sliding out. It was locked.

She chewed her lip. “Please let me go.”

“Not a chance,” he said, putting his keys on the
filing cabinet against the opposite wall.

“The sexual harassment charge I’m going to bring
down on you—”

“Just try it.”

Another Josie strode into his office and jumped
back two steps when she saw her twin. “Mallory?” Josie whispered.

The other Josie’s eyes darted to the door. She
yanked at the cuffs and winced.

“Who are you?” Quinton repeated, grabbing her
unbound left wrist.

No scar.

He checked the other.

“What are you doing? I’ll scream, I swear.”

The less-made-up Josie held up her scarred wrist
and gestured outside with a nod of her head. “Can we talk somewhere private?”

Quinton narrowed his eyes at the woman cuffed to
his desk.

“Mallory won’t go anywhere,” Josie said.

“Why do you keep calling me that?” she growled.

Quinton pulled the other Josie into the hallway
and closed his office door behind him.

The second the door clicked behind them, this
Josie burst into tears.

“Crap,” Quinton said, dragging her into the
examination room down the hall.

“She’s real?” Josie put her hand over her mouth.
“Oh my God, I can’t believe it. All these years I thought I was crazy.” She
swallowed. Then looked him in the eyes. “Tell me you see her. Tell me I’m not
hallucinating.”

“I see her,” he muttered. But the woman in his
office, whoever she was, wasn’t Mallory.

Tara swallowed her panic and thought fast. She
closed her eyes and remembered the handsome Quinton Greyly. Brown hair,
military cut, strong jaw, sharp eyes. When she opened her eyes, she looked down
and his body was hers. Only now it was dressed in a halter top, a shorter-than-short
jean skirt, and stilettos.

With her free hand, she hit the intercom button.

“Yeah?” the receptionist snapped.

Friendly.

“Um, if you have a minute,” she said, wrinkling
her nose—well, the officer’s—when the voice came out deep, husky, and
one-hundred-percent male. She still wasn’t used to how well this shifting thing
could work—or
not well
if she didn’t know stupid details like scars. The
change in her voice had been minimal her first few shifts, but Collin had
helped her learn to focus her thoughts and make the shift complete—from face,
to body, to voice. She glanced down.

But not clothes.

“I need a favor,” she said into the intercom.

“Well, I need a hundred grand and a latte, what’s
your point?” the receptionist sassed.

“Help me out, and I’ll buy you lattes every
morning for the rest of the year.”

There was a long pause. Finally, the woman said,
“Starbucks?”

Tara grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ve be in there in two minutes.”

“Make it one, and I’ll make it a latte and a
muffin.”

“Deal,” she said.

The receptionist was a round black woman in a
no-nonsense black dress and a matching scowl. When she opened the door to
Greyly’s office, that scowl turned into the grin of a child on Christmas
morning.

“Oh, dear Lord above, this is sweet. Let me run and
get my camera phone.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Tara said, not because
she really didn’t want the woman to take a picture of Greyly like this—the ass
had cuffed her to the desk and deserved it—but because she thought that was
what Greyly would say. Besides, she was in a bit of a hurry.

The woman tried to pout but couldn’t keep her lip
from twitching when she looked at her boss.

“I’m in a bit of a pickle,” Tara said, tapping her
hairy, stilettoed foot.

The woman snorted. “Honey, you in a whole lot more
than that.”

“I seem to have left the keys to my cuffs on the
filing cabinet,” Tara said. “I need you to get me out of here before someone
sees me.”

The woman chuckled and shook her head. “Man, oh
man, I must have some caffeine addiction. It just might be worth losing that to
pull your officers in here right now.”

Tara swallowed and looked at the door. “I’m
begging you.”

“Well, all right, then.” But when she came around
the desk to help, she let out another delighted squeal of laughter at the sight
of Greyly’s exposed—and very hairy—legs and stilettos.

“I can explain,” Tara said, trying to imagine how
Greyly might explain such a thing.

The woman shook her head. “Nah, I’d much rather you
didn’t, sir. There are some things I just don’t wanna know.”

“You’re not Mallory,” Quinton said.

“No,” Josie shook her head. “I’ve told you that.
Wasn’t that Mallory in your office?”

“I...don’t think so.” But how many identical
drop-dead gorgeous blond bombshells could there be? “Can we talk?”

Josie’s phone rang in her purse, and she reached
for it. “I’m sorry,” she said, swiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand.
“I’m expecting a really important phone call.” She looked at the display on her
phone and her eyes lit up.

She held up a finger and connected the call.
“Aaron, please tell me you found something good.”

Her smile grew. “Okay,” she said. “Call him back
and tell him I can meet him. I’ll come back to the office now but send me a
text about when and where as soon as you know.” She disconnected the call and
took a deep breath, her cheeks flushing.

Quinton couldn’t get over how much she looked like
Mallory, yet the more he looked at her, the more surprised he was that he’d
ever thought they might be the same person. They could be twins, yes, but just
as each twin had her own look about her, Josie’s smile and mannerisms were
nothing like Mallory’s.

“Good news?” he asked.

She hugged herself and rubbed her bare arms. “I
hope so.” She glanced down at her phone again. “Listen, I can’t believe I’m
doing this when Mallory is in the other room, but I have to go.”

“You’re sure it’s Mallory?” he asked.

She cocked her head. “Who else would it be?”

A damn good question.

“Don’t let her go anywhere, okay?” she said.

“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t.”

She grinned. “I have so many questions.”

“You’re not the only one,” he muttered, but she was
already out the door.

Tara strode along the busy D.C. streets, all the
way down to the Metro, behind Josie. It was easy enough to blend with the crowd
as a small Asian-American woman. The text came through as they rode the crowded
Metro toward Stilettos, Inc. headquarters.

Too easy, Tara thought, leaning over and seeing
the message Josie’s assistant had sent to her:

Torpedo Factory, Alexandria, 2:30am

Quinton walked back into his office to retrieve the
Mallory look-alike, and it was empty.

He stepped back out to check the nameplate, as if
his office could have moved of its own volition since he left fifteen minutes
ago.

“Shit,” he murmured, going back in and around his
desk to see what kind of damage she’d done escaping. Since he was expecting to
see the drawer torn apart, he blinked when there was no sign of damage.

And no sign of his cuffs.

He grabbed his briefcase and went to the front.
“Rhonda,” he asked the receptionist, “did you see anyone leave my office?”

She looked him up and down and raised an eyebrow.
“That a trick question? Because you’re not getting out of bringing my latte.”

“What? No—” He shook his head “My handcuffs, have
you seen them? Or anything else...funny?”

“Sergeant, I’ve seen more than my fair share of
funny today.” She slid her purse on her shoulder and stood. “And now I’m going
home.”

“Have a nice night.” What the hell was she talking
about? The could-be-twins? There had been two of them, hadn’t there?

He dug his hand in his hair. He was losing it.

“Latte and a muffin.” She pushed open the door. “And
maybe a few shopping tips,” she said, looking him up and down again. “Them were
some damn cute shoes.”

“Would you please quit giving me that look?” Darian
said. “How the hell was I supposed to know it wasn’t Paige?”

Tanner threw himself back in his chair and tossed
down his pencil. “I don’t know. You’re in love, don’t you just
know
?”

Darian let out a long breath and ran his hand
through his hair. “Hell, in retrospect, she wasn’t acting right, but I had no
reason to be on guard. Are there even any Shifters around here anymore?”

“Only one in the database,” Tanner said. “And
she’s a suspected Ascendant.”

“Jesus, this whole thing stinks of them.”

“You can say that again,” Tanner muttered. He
pressed redial on his phone, and as he listened to the line ring, he snatched
up the notes Darian had taken before he’d lost the journal. “What’s this about
Keys
?”
he asked, slamming the phone down when he got Josie’s voice mail again.

“I don’t know,” Darian said. “
The Keys will
unlock the Keeper’s power
was all it said.”

Tanner tapped his fingers against the desk. Even
unencrypted, the woman’s messages were cryptic. “Why does that seem familiar?”

Darian stood and stretched. “I don’t know man, but
I need to get home. I don’t want Paige alone until this is resolved.”

Tanner nodded and waved absently. He reached for the
phone again. “Fuck it,” he muttered when her got Josie’s voice mail again.
“Josie, there’s a Shifter running around. She/he/whatever impersonated Paige to
Darian. Just...be careful. Things might not be as they appear.” He glanced at
his watch. “And call me back to let me know you got this, okay? This would be a
hell of a lot easier if you weren’t dodging my calls.”

Mallory Aston waited in Quinton’s apartment. It had
been easy enough to track him down, and easier still to let herself in. Only
now was she beginning to come to her senses.

Why did she think he would want to see her after
all these years? What made her think he would forgive the way she’d ended their
relationship? And, moreover, why the hell did she assume he was still single?

All good questions. None of which had she asked
herself before hopping on the plane to D.C. when she needed a place to run from
her father’s controlling rule.

Someone fumbled with a set of keys outside the
door, and she folded her legs under herself on the couch. Too late to turn back
now. She worried her lip between her teeth, and then the door opened.

He had a gun in his hand.

Her pulse fluttered and her mouth went
dry—reactions that had nothing to do with the gun.

There he was. Quinton. Her college love affair.
The American boy she’d never gotten over.

Except he was older now. Older and broader. And pissed.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he asked.

“I—” But she stopped talking altogether at the sound
of the bullet sliding into the chamber.

The body in Tara’s trunk was gray, lifeless, and
staring up at her.

“What is it?” Collin said, stepping off Rider’s
front porch, cigarette in his hand.

Tara was vaguely aware of him grabbing her hand
when he reached her side.

“Shit,” he muttered.

She tried to swallow, but a ball of horror stuck
in her throat, threatening to push free and bring everything she’d ever eaten
with it. “He’s dead.”

Collin squeezed her hand a final time before
dropping it. “Yes, he is. Go in the house and wait.”

She shook her head. She had wanted this. She
wanted to be in the thick of the action. Just like her sister was. She wasn’t
backing off now. “Isn’t that—isn’t it? But I just saw—”

Collin looked over his shoulder. They were alone
on the dusky street. “Tara, go inside.”

“Should I call my sister?”

Collin narrowed his eyes. “What could Paige do
here that I can’t?”

She could make me feel better.

Quinton couldn’t remember the last time his
goddamn hands shook when he held a gun, but they were shaking now. He’d had a
fucking hell of a day, and now she was in his apartment—whoever the hell she
was.

He’d seen enough of Josie Bovard in the last week
that he could rule her out pretty quickly, and he didn’t think it was the heavily
made-up Josie he’d cuffed to his desk.

“How the fuck many of you are there?”

“
Comment
?”

His stomach dropped to his knees.
Mallory
.

He wasn’t sure which was more pathetic: that he
was seeing variations of his old love every which way he turned or that he
desperately wanted the woman on his couch to be his college sweetheart. He even
thought she’d spoken French.

“Quinton?”

He squeezed his eyes shut. Hell, she even sounded
like Mallory. He opened them again at the sound of movement. She was standing,
pulling on a pair of low-heeled boots.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

She flashed him a look—cold, yet naïve. This
wasn’t the woman who’d been in his office today. Not either of them. “I didn’t
exactly expect a ticker tape parade, but this is too much.” Then under her
breath, she added, “I thought your mother taught you better.”